


second chances and other things that might hurt

by huffspuffsblows



Series: opened at gunpoint at a local mcdonalds [6]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Gen, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:00:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26455261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huffspuffsblows/pseuds/huffspuffsblows
Summary: Cut less or cut cleaner, but at the end of the day I want toturn myself on myself, pit out my chest,make some reintroductions while the ache’s still fresh.Maybe I’ll leave my heart on the dining room table.It’s been so long since I’ve seen it.A boy faces his heart over, and over, and over-- and finally rises to meet it.
Relationships: Aka Ashi no Zeff | Red-Leg Zeff & Vinsmoke Sanji, Vinsmoke Sanji & Vinsmoke Sora
Series: opened at gunpoint at a local mcdonalds [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1826923
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	second chances and other things that might hurt

**Author's Note:**

> Me: I don't care for Sanji  
> Me, later: I still don't care for Sanji but I'm gonna write about him anyway

  
  
Peel potatoes. Mop the floor. Scrape the soggy remains of extravagant dinners into the trash. His life is this numb monotony he can find gratitude for at 8, that he cherishes and almost wears as neatly pressed and creased as his uniform at 9. He has always been a piece in a set of 4 [set apart, spilled across a chess board he’ll never understand] but here he won’t be crushed underfoot, can slide into the (somewhat) anonymity of being a young trainee with a decent reputation and a hunger for [escape] knowledge.

The first time he spots the innocent little book someone’s brought it back from port, intends to send it to their kid back home. An exciting, brand new adventure of a warrior alone across the endless sea, of tricky, cunning evil that will never prevail. It’s a name traced beneath his fingertips that catches his attention, that teases at his boredom, at the endless monotony, that gives his fingers the thought to flip the cover open, sift through the pages to a color spread of four caped individuals, a looming figure in a helmet in the background and the symbol for great evil Ger —

Sanji shoves his palms over his ears, fingers tugging strands of blonde as tight as his tightly shut eyes, enough to _burnitch_ , make him see spots, hope upon hope that when he opens his eyes his nightmares will transform into potatoes sliced perfectly into wedges. He’s going to be sick, he’s going to be sick, he’s going to be--

[oh, his heart aches, for his warrior was the very heart trapped between his ribs, waiting to watch him fly]

He barely manages to catch a trashcan between sweaty palms, shoved between trembling legs, back hunched with the weight of this travesty. Sanji has stopped believing in acts of God but this act of mercy from the sea herself when the Orbit is swallowed up he doesn’t think to thank anyone for.

Sliced potatoes. Stir the pot. Kick and be kicked. Sanji wears 14 like freshly shined dress shoes and upskirt shots, like a zit that lays him out for an hour, like splintered wood and cumin first thing in the morning, and if he wasn’t grateful for the kicks and the insults and the burns he wouldn’t fit seamlessly into the fray, giving as much as he gets. They fill space greedily, noisily, thoughtlessly. Like breathing takes every limb and every piece of the air around them. If their noxious banter doesn’t fill the remaining space they’ll up and die.

[Sanji loves it, will trade his noble blood a thousand times over for just one more day protecting the old man’s dream]

He is tipsy as hell. The kitchen is closed for the night, they are crowded between the gentle sway of their hammocks. The nastiest swill dribbles between the cracks of the floorboards beneath them while the bottle’s passed around as generous as their laughter. Their nights are as loud as their days, though they attempt to hush each other up when the danger of waking the Beast is nigh. Nights like these are best for swapping stories and techniques, nudie mags and manuals spread across the floor between snacks and ashtrays.

When something is pressed to his flushed cheek he swats at the offending corner of a book halfheartedly, gaze focused on knife techniques that could make things a lot easier.

“C’mon, Sanji, read somethin’ a little more cultural! This is something you’re missing out on,” one of the younger cooks wheedles and whines, keeps shoving it at him until he spits out his cigarette, snatches it to beat him over the head with, gets one smack in—sees a familiar name emblazed across the cover.

His arms slowly come down. He can’t take his eyes off it [doesn’t wonder what they’re up to for a second, not even his second savior with their mother’s soft eyes—Sanji is a liar], the noise around him fades to a dull murmur.

Sanji’s lighter takes to a corner of it. It makes very good tinder with its leatherette [and they couldn’t have gone for the real stuff huh]. The screams of alarm around him don’t bother him. He holds on until the last moment, until flames lick at his palms, until a stubby peg leg slams down upon his skull with all the weight of a father’s love.

“What the fuck is going on in here?!” Zeff snarls with all the ferocity of Smokey the Bear, his eyes flash, and it’s at that moment that Sanji snaps out of it. His fellow cooks are scattered around the barracks, pails and boots upending water over the simmering novel, and Patty has been shaking him for the past minute at least.

Sanji shrugs off Patty’s hands, lights a new cigarette with trembling palms [and dontcha know the hot white pain doesn’t come from seared skin at all], finds his voice with those stern eyes on him, swallows past the lump that chokes him.

“Nothing. We were just-- nothing.”

Zeff turns for the door but Sanji knows to follow those stiff shoulders, that gaze that reads him in a single instant. The fresh air out on deck does wonders for his clammy skin, for his brain. Maybe he can find the words, maybe he can find an excuse that’ll just get the crap kicked out of him, maybe—

“Come here, shithead,” Zeff demands, crooks a finger at him. Heart heavy with shame Sanji does, figures he might actually get a punch of all things [he probably could have at least burnt someone’s stupid ass with that recklessness before burning their entire dream to cinders].

Rough fingers tug at his lapels, his tie [still on this late, he’d forgotten himself] slides up around the lump in his throat anew.

“You look like crap. Even your hair’s a mess—stay still.” Zeff decides this all on his own, and after more pawing and a swat at the pimple Sanji’s feeling himself enough to swat back at him.

“Enough— _enough_! Just. Say something already. Out with it,” he demands. The anger simmers on the surface like a pot that’s ready to gush forth too much water [who are you mad at, Sanji? This hollow pain wormed into your heart, how will you release it].

Those eyes see through him every time. Softly, Zeff finally says, “Go to bed, little eggplant.”

When his shoulders sag, Sanji exhales.

“What, did you think we were gonna hug or something?”  
“Shut the hell up—”

21 feels like victory and terrifying heights that he’s started to think they won’t fall from [or when they do, because everything comes tumbling down, at least they’ll be together—and as long as they’re whole that’s what matters]. It is too many loves to count among the laughter and the stupidity, perfectly curled tips and padlocks on the fridge. Home is where the heart is, is it possible to share so many pieces his heart at once without dying? His heart apparently doesn’t care.

Sanji picks it up this time when they’re running for their lives, as usual, tucked into the waistband of his slacks like a brick rather than just fancy lead. When things are settled and Sunny rocks along the waves in a happy bob, he sits on the deck in the rare downtime between lunch and third lunch. He’s stared at it unopened for at least an hour, and though the playful screams of the others are uninterrupted, he knows he must paint an odd picture.

It’s just a book. A deep breath [a flash of laughing violet eyes] later and he flips the cover open. Sanji eats up each page, the nausea doesn’t taste as strong as he imagined it would, and the costumes look as dumb as they had in person—and Sora, he is nothing like his mother.

Nimble fingers of rubber pluck the book from his lap, settle it like a hat across his own straw ensemble. Before the snarl of indignation can curl at his lip those dark eyes hold his gaze.

“Come play,” his captain requests. _Leave it_ he means.

Sanji reaches for the book [reaches for, reaches and reaches for a helping hand he hadn’t even known he’d needed, again, 2 years ago], knee cocked back and ready to let fly, when the other two stumble on over.

“Sanji!” Chopper chirps, little hooves clutch his hand, tug with a fervor unexpected of someone so tiny, though they know better. “Come on, let’s go! Let’s play tag! You can be it this time, and you can even—”

“Sanji let’s go let’s goooo, let’s move it along, we’ve got no time to lose!” Usopp pipes in, sweat beading his brow as he circles around to give him that push he needs.

“You’re trying to get me out of sight of the kitchen before I see what you guys did in there, aren’t you?”

His heart has never felt so full, he has only felt this and blessedly angry at the same time because of these people. [his people]

Luffy crows that hearty, limitless laugh. “We’re already halfway to the men’s quarters, it’s worked!”

[oh, he hadn’t even noticed once again, he’d taken off into the future hadn’t he?]

A smile finds its way to his face around the cigarette at the corner of his mouth.

“I’ll give you a five-second head start before I beat the shit out of you. Five….”

The kids of North Blue can have their heroes, their boogeymen. There is no need to share. Sanji has his heart—nothing between the pages of a book, nor cold castle walls, can _ever_ take that from him.


End file.
